


Third Time's (Not Exactly) The Charm

by Severina



Series: Mousecapades [3]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: getyourwordsout, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7227889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Matt try for a third time -- this time a casual coffee date in the park. What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Time's (Not Exactly) The Charm

**Author's Note:**

> Third in the 'mousecapades' series. Written for LJ's getyourwordsout bingo for this photo prompt:
> 
> [ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Severina2001/media/gywo%20bingo/03%20town%20common_zpslziutjt9.jpg.html)

Matt turned onto the path, the chill wind lifting the hair at the nape of his neck. His sneaker scuffed against a dropped candy bar wrapper, and he paused in his recitation of his family history to lean down and pick it up; tossed it in the wire basket next to the bench before stopping and shaking the hair out of his eyes.

"So just the one brother?"

"Yeah," Matt answered. He jutted his chin toward the park bench, flopped down onto the seat when John nodded. "Just Nathan. He's five years older. We're… not close."

He snorted under his breath. Not close was maybe an understatement, considering the last time he saw Nathan they spent ten minutes shouting nose to nose before Matt grabbed his overnight bag – which had never made it out of the foyer – and slammed out the door. Two terse phone calls from his mother later and he'd basically slammed the door on all of them.

"Sounds like me and my sister," John said. There was plenty of room on the bench, but he still sat comfortably near, the muscle of his thigh flexing against Matt's when he stretched his legs out. Matt's fingers clutched convulsively around his cup, and he hastily took a scorching gulp of his drink to smother any inadvertent noises of appreciation he might make at the contact. 

When his tonsils stopped trying to burn their way out of his throat, he asked, "Is she like you?"

"Suze?" John said. "Well, she's built like a linebacker. But nah, she found religion and moved down to Arkansas years ago, spends her days scaring people into thinkin' they're going to hell and praying for all my sins," he said dryly. "Got a letter from her once, after Nakatomi – that was this hostage thing I was involved in – tellin' me I ought've _reasoned_ with the fuckers. This, after they'd already killed two people and planned to blow up the rest." John lifted a shoulder as he brought his own cup to his lips. "Since then it's just been Christmas cards, and even those stopped a couple three years back."

Matt watched him over his cup. He wasn't sure which was more surprising: that there was a football player sized female McClane somewhere out there preaching fire and brimstone, or that John would think he _doesn't_ know what Nakatomi was. Hell, it took him all of twenty minutes to hack into the FBI's files on that one, and slightly less to bring up all the information on the theft of the gold bars by the other Gruber brother. 

At least his own brother never dangled anyone he loved from a thirty story window. Kind of put his issues with Nathan into perspective when he thought of it that way.

Matt relaxed back on the bench, let his gaze drift. The mingled scents of his hot chocolate and John's dark roast drifted on the air, and the normal rush of New York City traffic was muted and faraway.

The park was fairly empty, but the crisp October air didn't stop a few other stalwart couples from taking advantage of the sunshine after several days of rain. A lone single sat on the grass across the way, nose buried in a book; a couple of schmucks in costume with placards advertising some cheese store wandered around on the sidewalk on the other side of the green, trying desperately to drum up business. Matt squinted, almost turned to John to point out that the poor suckers were dressed up as mice. Then he thought better of it. This was going well. He was enjoying himself. The less they spoke about mice – and those semi-disastrous first two dates – the better.

But seeing the poor bastards in full mouse regalia reminded him of the summer he spent with his grandmother in Maine and an unfortunate incident with a guy dressed as a lobster claw, and he turned to John with a grin. "So you may not believe this, but when I was sixteen—"

"You ever heard of Reynaldo's Cheese Emporium, kid?"

So John _had_ seen the dudes dressed as mice. Not all that surprising, he supposed. Cops probably saw everything. And if he believed John they were mind readers too, but he's had some prettttty racy thoughts in his head since he and McClane started dating and John hadn't sputtered and flailed yet, so he's fairly certain that one is just an exaggeration. 

John arched a questioning brow in his direction, and Matt realized it wasn't a rhetorical question.

"McClane," he said, "do I look like a guy that can afford to shop at an 'emporium'? Most of my cheese comes out of a can. Which, by the way, is not as disgusting as it first appears. An acquired taste, sure, but not the epitome of culinary vileness that food snobs always go on about on those cooking shows. Not that I'm addicted to the Food Network or anything, I'm just saying that spray cheese gets an unfair bad rap. _And_ not that I always stick with the classic air pressured cheese-like product," he continued, pointing a finger. "Sometimes, if I really wanna splash out, I splurge for some Velveeta."

The bench shifted when John rose, eyes fixed on the block of shops on the other side of the park. Matt looked up to follow his gaze, only to find John's coffee shoved abruptly into his free hand. "Wait here," John said curtly as the second man-sized mouse took a stealthy glance around before disappearing into what Matt could now see was the door of a little boutique jewelry store.

It couldn't be. They were in a park. It was the middle of the goddamn day!

He stood abruptly as John strode off across the grass. "You know," he called out, "there's probably a very logical explanation. Maybe they're on their break – walking billboards get breaks you know! – and one of them is getting married and they're just stopping in to look at engagement— oh shit."

Matt dumped the cups and ran.

By the time he pushed through the plate glass door of the jewelry store, one of the thieves – because of course they were thieves, what else would he encounter on a date with John McClane but _two jewel thieves dressed in furry grey mouse costumes_ \-- was prone against the back display case, out like a light amongst the glitter of broken glass. The second was rolling around on the floor of the shop with John, which might be comical in a Will Ferrell movie or something but was decidedly less so when the jewelry thief cum mouse was actually getting the upper hand. Or paw. Whatever. 

Matt winced when the thief's fist connected with John's jaw. John's head snapped to the right, and for some reason it was the sound of the blood pattering on the polished floor from John's (probably broken) nose that snapped Matt out of his lethargy. He lurched forward and snatched up the first thing that came to hand – the giant cheese wedge that had been tucked beneath the arm of Thief Number One. He lifted and swung in one long smooth arc, visions of saving the day cascading through his head. He'd probably get a medal, there might be a parade in his fucking honour, at the very least he'd impress the shit out of John McClane… 

And then the wedge bounced harmlessly off the thief's fur-clad back.

"What the fuck?" he yelled. "Styrofoam? Are you kidding me right now?"

He heard a very distinct _snap_ that may or may not have been a rib, and cringed as he darted past the writhing bodies, his gaze flitting around the store. Display racks of costume jewelry. One skinny suited clerk huddled against the wall with his fists clenched in front of his mouth. Candlestick!

Matt grabbed it up quickly, hefted it experimentally. Definitely not Styrofoam. 

Two long strides and a swing. A sickening _crunch_ that made his stomach lurch, and the thief collapsed bonelessly to the side, a thin trickle of blood seeping out to stain the back of his furry mouse head. 

"Jesus Christ," John said, rolling over onto his back with a groan. "Took you fuckin' long enough, kid."

Matt laughed, recognized it vaguely as a result of the adrenaline rush. It had been perhaps twenty seconds since he ran into the store. It felt like twenty minutes. "Yeah," he said. "You were really getting your tail kicked there, McClane." He nudged the prone mouse-man with one sneakered foot. "Get it. Tail?"

"I get it, Matthew," John said dryly. He folded one hand against his chest, winced and then raised his head slightly off the floor when the sirens started up in the distance. "Great," he said. "Just in time. Now that all the fun's over."

"I don't know what it is with you and hand to hand combat, John." Matt held out a hand to heft John to his feet, staggered back when John stumbled. His arm came up again to cradle his chest, and yeah, that had definitely been a cracked rib. They reeled together toward the counter to lean against it. "Or should I say hand to paw?"

"You about done?"

"Nah, got one more."

"Of course you do."

"That dude over there looks pretty out of it. Maybe you should give him some mouth to snout resuscitation."

John groaned again, but this time he couldn’t hide the hint of a smile, despite the (probably not broken after all) bloody nose and the split lip. He shook his head. "You're really enjoying this, aren't ya kid?"

"Not really," Matt said. He slumped back against the counter, his knees suddenly wobbly. Blood from the thief's cracked skull was trickling across the floor in thin rivulets, and he had to force himself to look away and back to John. "Why does this keep happening to us?"

The smile on John's face turned rueful. "Holly used to ask that."

"You and your ex had a problem with _mice_ ruining your dates?" It's the most random thing Matt has ever heard in his life, but this was John McClane. He's learning that anything is possible.

"Nah." John lifted a shoulder, grimaced when the motion twinged something in his side. "Just with bad guys in general."

"Oh," Matt said. He'd perked up a little at the thought that this might all be McClane-related, but now deflated back against the counter. "So this is just my curse."

"Seems only fair that you should get one, too," John said. 

"Right," Matt said. "No wait, what's your curse? They're always out of boston creams when you get to the donut counter? Nobody ever refills the coffee pot at the precinct? And it always tastes like sludge or nuclear waste. I know how these things work, McClane. I watch TV."

Matt cocked his head, but John was still staring at the prone bodies on the floor. The flow of blood had stemmed somewhat, and the one that he'd brained was starting to twitch a little. The mouse-man in the corner was still out like a light, but his chest was rising and falling steadily. The sirens were getting closer, and his gaze was drawn away from the men when John eased carefully away from the counter and faced him. The movement put McClane's back to the bad guys – which _really_ made Matt uncomfortable – but all thought of one of them rising up suddenly like a crazed maniac from some B-grade action movie flew from his head when John took his hands. 

"I understand if it's too much," John said. His eyes flicked to the men on the floor, the store clerk still wheezing in the corner, the smashed cabinet and glittering glass on the polished tile. He took a breath and winced again before meeting Matt's eyes. "I understand if you wanna just bail on… all this. Hell, it's probably for the best, kid."

Matt opened his mouth to reply, closed it again when he saw the look in John's eyes. _This_ \-- jewel thieves and international terrorists and drug kingpins – this was John's _life_. And if he intended to be a part of it, it would be his life, too. And he had to seriously consider what John was saying, because – aside from their little adventure on the fourth – his only experience with car chases and madmen with guns up to this point had been from Grand Theft Auto. Did he really want to be thrown into these types of situations every time they went out for a slice of pizza? And if he _wasn't_ there, could he sit at home worrying about John McClane every time the man left the house?

Then he thought about sitting at home without any John McClane at all, and the answer was easy.

"And start eating alone?" Matt asked. He smiled. "I haven't even _really_ had your World Famous Lasagna yet."

For a moment, John just looked at him. Then his mouth quirked, and the hands on his tightened. "It's fuckin' fantastic."

"Once your kitchen's fixed—"

"It's a date," John said. 

He squeezed Matt's hands again before releasing him and straightening, no sign of the busted rib showing on his face as he turned to greet the cops peeling out of the squad car that had squealed to a stop by the curb. 

Matt had a moment to wonder just what exactly he'd gotten himself into before he stepped up to join him. And strangely, he found himself grinning. At least life with John would always be an adventure.


End file.
